


Protective James Bond is Protective ~or~ Au Contraire Motherfucker

by Dart



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, MI6 Cafe Challenge, MI6 Cafe Occult October Challenge, Protective James Bond, sp00qy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dart/pseuds/Dart
Summary: James Bond’s shifter form will have you quaking in your boots. And britches.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is me pouting because Celyan is having all the Bond as Cat writing fun. I’m having lots of fun betaing for Celyan, this is just me being exceptionally on-brand. 
> 
> I should probably apologize for the bit of Chemistry crack, but I won’t.

In a world filled with shifters, anyone who took one look at James Bond just _knew_ he shifted into some great cat—all claws and snarl, muscled flank and lunging murderous rage. 

Or the romantically inclined envisioned the anticipation of that twitching tail, the pounce, that purring warmth curled around them, the scratchy wetness of that massive tongue. Yeah okay, pretty much everyone thought about that tongue.    
  
Those intelligent arctic blue eyes looking directly into their soul or at least gazing knowingly into their kinks folder, days lounging in bed with that sexy, sexy beast.    
  
The way he would haunt the periphery of their presence, a protective snarl at anyone whose eyes lingered on their form a second too long. A half-hearted non-lethal swipe at the budget department lackey who delivered the bad news. The certainty they felt that Bond, _James_ would claim them and protect them with every muscled ounce of that obscenely smoking hot body.    
  
And absolutely no one would dissuade them from their big cat assumptions regarding 007 because every last baddie who had ever seen 007 assume his shifter form had died a horrible death. No graceful disemboweling or throat neatly torn out, no. Still, none lived to tell the tale. And the colleagues and the allies? Oh, they knew to keep their mouths shut. 

You might think it comical, the idea of being slaughtered by a  _ mere _ swan, but clearly you had never been attacked in the park as a small child or as an adult who really should know better _ffs_. 

And sure, the tech that Q Branch outfitted its agents with helped, but make no mistake, James Bond was murderous in any form and if Q Branch ever achieved gaseous form for its agents, James Bond would kill you with his murderous rage, no solid form needed.    
  
And when 007 was in London, every last employee of MI6 knew to steer well clear of the Quartermaster because even if James Bond was too emotionally stunted to admit it, the Quartermaster was  _ his _ and woe betide anyone who even glanced at Q wrong or god forbid leered. The department had a special code for when some poor schmuck brought down the feathery fury of the hell beast known as 007 upon their pecked-bloody heads. 

James Bond, 007. Terror Bird.


	2. How the Quartermaster got his Tech Back, in a Manner of Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it the return of Q’s precious precious tech???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went for 666. And overshot. Horribly. I mean I totally meant to hit 777 for my second Sp00qy because I’m an overachiever like that.

On the matter of Q’s precious previous tech or rather his tech that had existed once upon a time until it met the gravitational force that was James sodding Bond—and _Christ_ he had to stop with the _Bond as celestial body_ analogies, that was the third one this morning!—Q had tried damn near everything to decrease the loss rate on his tech. _Do not_ bring up the live crickets. Ever.

Q even went through a phase of making everything with a matte finish in case 007 had merely been tempted by the shininess of it all like the purported magpie, but to no avail, well actually, the return rate on 007’s tech got even worse which would have seemed statistically impossible. It turns out the aesthetically displeasing finish was an affront to 007’s fashionable senses, and he intentionally jettisoned the tech. The posh bastard. 

And after the 237th rant just that month about his missing technology, Q yelled in a “ferocious kitten is ferocious” fit of rage, “I don’t even think you lose it! I think you just poke it away in some hidey hole!”

And James Bond, 007 and sometime terror bird stood absolutely—dead as a superglued-in-place doornail—still. Not one twitch of those perfectly sculpted—physique of one of the lesser, bloodier gods really—muscles, not a blink of an eyelash—and Q seeing Bond’s tell yelled, “You absolute corn cob! You really are squirreling away my precious tech!”

Bond’s hatefully gorgeous loathsome face was overcome by a look of utter revulsion. 

“Oh don’t think you being a speciesist will get me off track! Squirrels are vital rodents! I don’t know why you have to be so bitchy! It was just the one time!” Deep breath. “Where are you _hiding_ my precious tech, 007? Tell me. Now.”

Something flashed across 007’s face. Q could almost swear it was a leer. 

“Please. Call me James.” A genuinely charming smile and then, “We should discuss this over dinner.”

This again. Q started on his 87th declination of dinner. “As your superior…”

“I just thought you might like to take a little look around my _nest_ after. I’ve got something to show you all right.”

And Q, devil that he is, sighs his best damsel sigh and says, “if you can’t officially inventory them, you might as well join them.”


End file.
